


Someone to Save You

by antharyn



Series: Counting Stars [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antharyn/pseuds/antharyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day he met Joly was the day he almost died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled into this fandom months ago, addicted to E/R. Then I took a closer look at Killian and Hugh and...well...voila!
> 
> There doesn't seem to much of this pairing (understatement) and I have to wonder why...I can't be the only one who can figure out how these two fit! What do you think?

The day he met Joly was the day he almost died.

Or so he was told; he couldn’t remember.

The epidemic started outside the walls of Paris, but spread swiftly and ravaged the city and its people. Within a week the streets in the poorest quarter of the city were rank with disease. The death toll soared; corpses lined the twisted roads and wooden carts were pulled through the streets at night to collect the dead and burn their bodies.

More than a fifth of Paris’s population suffered the symptoms of loose bowels, nausea, and severe dehydration. It was fatal in children and the elderly, but some of the young and strong seemed able to fight it off—a paltry dozen fortunate Parisians to the hundreds of people the epidemic claimed everyday.

Combeferre had watched cart after cart piled high with bodies pass through the streets for days, and each day he saw the wretchedness around him—the streets lined with the dead and the dying, women and children living in squalor, shacks and shanties slowly being gutted of their occupiers as disease ravaged the people’s homes—he heard Enjolras’s voice ring loud and clear in his mind.

 _Where_ , he had imagined his Chief’s voice cry out in his mind. _ **Where** are the leaders of the land?_

Where indeed?

It was a harsh reminder of why he, Enjolras, and Coufeyrac spent hours plotting in the backroom of the Musain and gathering people to their cause. Harsh, yet utterly necessary; he wasn’t likely to forget.

He had only meant to close his eyes for a little while if only to block out the horror around him for a moment. The sight and stench of it all had made his stomach roil and he’d vomited several times already. He was tired and a headache had started brewing at his temples; he was sweating profusely from the heat of the sun. He had closed his eyes to compose himself.

He didn’t open them again for hours.

He awoke in the night with a start, his mind hazy and uncertain. His limbs were leaden and his mouth dry; he didn’t know where he was. His head hurt dreadfully and when he tried to get up the world all but lurched around him and he sank back down with a groan.

Moonlight streamed through an unfamiliar window. He could hear low voices murmuring all around him, growing louder and louder until all of a sudden he was quite aware of the din it was causing—tense and incessant and coming from all directions at once. He was surrounded by people—men, women, children—some flitting in and out of his vision as they walked past. Most were lying on cots much like the one he was on himself.

Then in a sudden moment of clarity everything seemed to snap into place and Combeferre finally realized where he was and why he was there. He was in a hospital. And he was very sick.

A wave of nausea assailed him and he closed his eyes again and groaned, writhing on the small cot he was lying on. He felt horrible; even the thin blanket draped over him seemed to weigh too heavily upon his chest.

“Monsieur?” Asked a voice. “Are you awake?”

Combeferre opened his eyes again and saw a woman leaning over him. She was young and pretty with lovely skin and a kind face. Combeferre blinked up at her wordlessly, and she smiled and turned to call out to someone else.

There was movement from across the room and Combeferre looked past the young woman to see a man quickly making his way toward them. He was young as well, not much older than Combeferre if he was older than him at all. His hair was dark with unruly strands falling over his forehead and he looked very tired, but he smiled kindly when he reached down to lay a cool hand on Combeferre’s brow.

The man sighed with relief. “Your fever is gone,” he said and he turned to the young woman beside him. “Did I not tell you, ‘Chetta? This man has heart.” He reached for Combeferre’s wrist and took his pulse and his grin grew wider. He looked back down at Combeferre with kind blue eyes. “You had us fearful for a while. How do you feel?”

Combeferre could only swallow and cough around the dryness in his throat in response, but the woman called ‘Chetta was quick to lift his head and bring a cup of water to his lips. Combeferre sipped it, then drank it down greedily when he realized how thirsty he was—he suddenly felt as if all the water in the world could not soothe his parched throat.

“It is good that he is drinking,” he heard the man say. “Though his stomach may not welcome more solid foods just yet.”

“I’ll fetch him more water and some broth,” ‘Chetta said.

Combeferre turned his head away from the cup when it was empty and gratefully sank back into the cot. The woman turned to leave before he could thank her and Combeferre could not find the strength to call out as she left. It seemed that the effort it took to drink a cup of water had exhausted him and he turned to look at the other man again in the hope that he could make sense of it all.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice was hoarse from disuse and it made him wonder how long he had been asleep.

“You tell me,” the man said as he took a seat on a chair by Combeferre’s cot. “You were brought here by men who apparently did not know you or how you came to be passed out on the street, though what you were doing there was beyond any of us.” He smiled wryly. “You do not have the look of a man who belongs in the streets of the district they said they found you in.”

Combeferre tried to look as far back into his recent memory as he could. “I went to help the victims of the epidemic. I have been going there each day for weeks now.”

The other man hummed and nodded as if to himself. “That explains how you caught it.”

“Cholera is not catching.”

“Not quite, no. But if you had drunk the water there or eaten any contaminated foods…” The man looked at him pointedly, prompting him, and Combeferre tried to remember if he had.

“In a moment of carelessness I may have done just that at some point,” he muttered to himself and the other man nodded.

The two of them spent the next few minutes discussing Combeferre’s condition, his signs and symptoms, his possible treatment—water with some honey or salt; Combeferre already knew that. As he spoke, Combeferre realized how weak he felt. Without a doubt he had contracted Cholera, but the doctor—for surely that was what the other man had to be—deemed him stable enough and past the worst of the malady.

Combeferre looked around him then—at the stained glass windows, the high ceiling, and the dozens of people lying sick in cots around him—and asked: “Where is this place?”

“You are in the ward of the Hôpital de la Charité and you have been here for two days,” the man explained. “Do you remember any of it?”

Combeferre shook his head no and hissed when the movement made him see stars. The man frowned and drew closer.  
“What is your name?”

“Combeferre.”

“Combeferre,” the man repeated. He nodded his head and procured an inked quill and a small pad of paper from one of his pockets. “Is there someone we can send for? Your family and friends need to know you are here.”

The first person Combeferre can think of is Enjolras and he gives the man his friend’s name and address and hopes he will see that mop of curly blond hair and hear his voice soon. They must be worried sick about him—he, the second in command of their little, but growing, ensemble of mavericks so suddenly disappearing from their midst without a word and—

He gasped and tried to sit up in his cot, regretting the movement immediately when his body proved averse to such actions. He double over and held his breath when it seemed as if the contents of his stomach wanted to see the light of day again, but he tried to push it to the back of his mind.

He had forgotten—couldn’t believe he had forgotten even for just a moment—that he was a part of a much larger whole. He did not make the mistake of thinking Enjolras could not do it without him, but his chief needed his guide and what good was the center that was their good friend Coufeyrac if Combeferre was not there on the other side of him to keep them balanced? No, he needed to go home. Two days have passed! He had a lot of work to do.

“I must—”

“You can’t,” The other man said, getting up from his chair to push Combeferre firmly back onto the cot. “You are still very weak from dehydration.”

“You don’t understand—”

“Now see here I am a doctor, you know. Well, a doctor in training but a doctor all the same, and I say that you must rest.” He spoke calmly, but his blue eyes flashed and his voice was laced with an authority that was not there before. His hands were still gentle, though, and his voice soothing. He had what they called in the Collège a therapeutic touch and Combeferre relaxed under it, staying put in his cot when the man pointedly stated that he could barely sit up, much less walk out of the hospital. Combeferre knew he was right, though it annoyed him. It didn’t help that the world started spinning again. Still some matters were more important.

“My friend must know I am here,” he said with an impatience that was not usually in his character. Resigned as he was, he still needed to do what little he could. “It is urgent.” They needed to know he was still alive, that he was not captured—that they weren’t found out. Not this soon; they had only just begun.

“We will find your friend as soon as we can, but that may be some time yet; there is so much to do.” The man sounded apologetic. “I’m sorry, but we’re doing our best.”

“Then I may yet get a hold of my friends sooner myself,” Combeferre snapped.

The man frowned at Combeferre’s petulance, but merely shook his head for which Combeferre was both grateful and sorry for. He didn’t mean to grouse; illness did terrible things to one’s mood.

Just then ‘Chetta appeared at the doctor’s side with a new cup of water and a bowl of broth in hand. Combeferre stared longingly at the water she held; the dryness he felt in his very core made itself known once more. The man looked at her and nodded gratefully before turning back to Combeferre.

“Please try to eat and drink as much as you can,” he instructed gently as he sat back down on the chair beside Combeferre’s bed. “You’ve pulled through the worst of it, but you are far from well enough to be up and about.” Combeferre pursed his lips and said nothing, irritated with his own enfeeblement.

The other man seemed to take that as another show of petulance. “Please,” he said again as he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I…I don’t mean to frighten you, but we have lost so many already.” The corners of his eyes seemed to tighten and he bit his lip before continuing. He suddenly seemed much younger now. “Surely you can afford a day’s rest so as not to add to them?”

‘Chetta gasped and Combeferre was at a loss for words, whether it was from the man’s bluntness regarding the subject of mortality or the abject plea in his eyes he didn’t know. And it hit him, his mortality. He had read about Cholera, had discussed it in depth in the Collège when the University recognized the symptoms and the beginning of an outbreak. He couldn’t count the number of people he had seen die from the disease in the past few weeks alone. The knowledge that he had somehow pulled through 2 days without remembering any of it coupled with the unbearable thirst and weakness he was feeling now made him realize that it had probably been worse than the doctor made it seem.

“Joly…” ‘Chetta said softly from behind the young doctor in quiet reproach and only then did it occur to Combeferre that he had never gotten the man’s name until now.

The man—Joly—started and muttered a quick apology before clearing his throat. “You need rest, Monsieur Combeferre, and plenty of fluids,” he said. He took one look at the broth ‘Chetta held in her hands and gave Combeferre a rather sheepish smile. “It isn’t much, but it’s hot.”

“It’s fine,” Combeferre rasped out contritely and Joly took the cup of water from ‘Chetta and helped Combeferre drink it himself. When the cup was empty again he reached down and took Combeferre’s pulse a second time.

“I know you want nothing more than to be home in your own bed right now,” Joly said. “But I’m afraid we will have to keep you here for at least one more night. Without the proper care your condition could take a turn for the worse.”

Combeferre sighed heavily, but he nodded his assent. “I understand.”

The young doctor seemed relieved and he rose so ‘Chetta could take his place beside Combeferre. He looked up at the way the moonlight shone through the stained glass window and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It is late and I must attend to the other patients,” he said tiredly. “I will leave you now and see you in the morning. Can I trust you not to give dear ‘Chetta a hard time?” He raised a fine brow at Combeferre, but there was a flash of humor in his eyes.

Combeferre nodded and felt his lips quirk in a small smile of his own at the man’s brief show of light-heartedness in the face of their current setting, but his eyes darted to Joly’s breast pocket where he had seen the man slip the piece of paper with Enjolras’s name and address on it in.

Joly caught his gaze and patted the spot Combeferre was staring at. He smiled reassuringly. “I will send for your friend as soon as I can. Perhaps he will be here in the morning before you even wake or perhaps later in the afternoon. I cannot promise you when, Monsieur Combeferre. I can only promise that I will see it done.”

The young physician smiled again and Combeferre nodded and kept his peace. Under the current circumstances he knew he could ask for no more. “Thank you, Docteur.”

Joly nodded and took his leave, and ‘Chetta began the long but uneventful process of getting the broth into Combeferre. For the most part Combeferre was silent, taking in spoonsful of broth as it was fed to him and asking a few questions. He asked about the hospital and its staff, and learned that it relied almost entirely on donations and volunteers like her. He asked about the current outbreak of Cholera and was told that it was finally waning, albeit slowly. He asked about the young doctor Joly and discovered that the man was on the verge of finishing his studies and split his time attending classes and doing hospital work.

‘Chetta told him he was very lucky. He had been in terrible shape when he was brought in and it was a good thing Joly was there to attend to him right away. It wasn’t all the time the hospital had someone so qualified at hand; most of them were healers who could only offer comfort at best.

Combeferre nodded every now and then as he politely listened to ‘Chetta’s light chatter. His eyes and mind wandered. In the corner of his eye he watched Joly moving from one cot to the other as he checked on the other patients. ‘Chetta eventually took her leave when he had taken as much of the broth as his stomach would allow and Combeferre was left alone to rest and recuperate, but he did not sleep.

He stayed awake, for how long he did not know. He watched Joly and ‘Chetta and some other people working around the ward, watched patients sleep or writhe and groan miserably in their cots. He watched the walls of the hospital start to lighten with the dawn of a new day and that was when he finally saw Joly take a piece of paper from his breast pocket and give it to a dark-skinned, balding man who had just arrived.

Joly and the man spoke and Combeferre saw the young doctor glance at his direction, though from that distance Combeferre was sure the man couldn’t tell he was awake and watching them. The newcomer nodded and pocketed the piece of paper before turning and leaving again, and Combeferre knew then that Joly must have finally sent for Enjolras.

Relieved, Combeferre felt the fatigue melt away from his leaden limbs. He would have to wait hours, he was sure, but there was comfort in the knowledge that his friends would find him soon. His mind slowly quieted as he finally allowed himself to relax, and when Joly returned to his bedside to feel his forehead and check his pulse he was already asleep.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly finds a helping hand in the most unlikely of places. Joly and Combeferre get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the extremely late update! My life was a trainwreck for a while, but that's all over and done with now! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“Help me. Please help me.”

The cry came from a wizened old man lying alone on his cot, and Joly stopped in his tracks and quickly went over to him. He laid a hand gently on the old man’s shoulder.

“Monsieur, how may I help you?” he asked.

The old man opened his mouth, but this time no sound came out. With a trembling hand he reached up and gestured to his throat. Joly grasped his patient’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, trying to comfort the old man even as his own fingers took in the dryness of his skin and the thready pulse on his wrist. His eyes were sunken and his mouth was dry. This man needed plenty of water, and fast.

“Be still, Monsieur,” he said gently. “I will get you some water. You will be all right.” Joly looked up for assistance, but everyone was preoccupied.

The Hopital de la Charite was the largest hospital in the district, but it was currently filled to bursting. There were only a handful of trained physicians and nuns; most of the patients were left with volunteers who had big hearts and strong stomachs, but little skill. The outbreak had the hospitals in pandemonium, so much so that medical students who had enough training were pulled out of the Universities and were sent to help where they could, but there just weren’t enough of them. They were understaffed, overwhelmed, and short of supplies.

 _It is as if the devil himself orchestrated it_ , Joly thought grimly. Gently releasing his patient’s hand, he rose and quickly went to fetch water himself. His feet took him to the kitchens where water was boiled clean of the bacteria that was causing the disease and in minutes he was on his way back with a cup of cooled water in hand. The trip took him outside for a brief moment and the cool night air between buildings refreshed Joly. He stood for a moment, gratefully breathing in fresh air before going back into the hot, fetid building.

 _I shan’t complain of having to study through the night ever again_ , he told himself as he wove through the rows and rows of occupied cots, navigating his way back to his patient. He was surprised to see that someone was already there.

A man was seated next to his patient’s bed and was leaning over him, helping the old man drink from a cup of water. Joly frowned. Having worked in the hospital as long as he had he knew all the men and women assigned to these wards, but he did not recognize this one. Had the old man’s family finally come for him?

“Pardon me,” he started, and the newcomer turned his head at the sound of his voice. Joly saw the sandy-blonde hair and familiar face, and he gasped.

“Monsieur Combeferre, what are you doing?” He hissed, alarmed to see one of his patients out of bed.

Blue eyes blinked calmly at him from behind thick glasses. “I am attending to the patient, Docteur,” Combeferre answered evenly, but his brows drew together as if he couldn’t understand Joly’s reaction. In front of them the old man coughed and Combeferre adjusted the cup of water he was holding against the patient’s lips. “Slowly, Monsieur,” Combeferre said gently and Joly bit his bottom lip contritely, knowing that it was he who had startled his patient into a coughing fit. 

When the old man had settled, Combeferre looked back up at him expectantly and—Joly might just be imagining it—a little bit nervously, and Joly didn’t quite know what to do. He knew he should send Combeferre back to his cot to recuperate. The man was a patient, after all. The only reason Joly hadn’t done so immediately was because the situation confounded him; he’d never seen a patient try and help another patient before. Did Combeferre even know he himself had been even worse off than this old man only three days ago?

Combeferre was still looking to him to say something and Joly sighed. In the end the old man’s needs took precedence and the last he checked Combeferre was stable so he decided to attend to the matter at hand. In any case Joly needed all the help he could get.

“The water,” he started. “The water must be—”

“Saline and mixed with sugar or honey, I know. It is.” Combeferre said gently. He gave Joly a small grateful smile, knowing now that he wouldn’t be sent away, at least not immediately. 

Joly nodded and handed Combeferre the cup he had brought from the kitchen before examining the old man while Combeferre helped the patient drink and watched him.

“He is stable,” Joly announced after a while. “For now.”

Combeferre nodded. “That is good.”

By now the old man had fallen asleep, and Combeferre carefully smoothed a threadbare blanket over him. Joly leaned back and took the opportunity to assess the young man silently. Combeferre was still a little pale, but otherwise seemed fine—a far cry from the dreadfully sick man he had been when he was first brought in, delirious with dehydration and close to death. But Joly still didn’t want to take chances.

“May I?” he asked, reaching for Combeferre’s wrist and the young man sighed, but extended his arm. Joly took his pulse and felt his forehead and did a quick physical exam to make sure he was well. Pulling out his stethoscope he listened to Combeferre’s heartbeat and breath sounds. Lastly, he pressed his fingers gently along the man’s neck, looking for swollen nodes, and checked his tongue.

“Everything seems to be in working order,” he said finally and Combeferre let out sigh of relief, but Joly frowned. “Still, you should not be out of bed. Three days are not enough to recover from your ordeal.”

Two days passed since the blond had woken up, and there were the two he had spent all but insentient. His stay here was now approaching five days, but Joly wanted to be sure he was well improved before he could let him go. 

Combeferre seemed to shudder visibly at the idea of going back to his cot, though. “I could not stay there a moment longer,” he said. “I am fine, Docteur. I promise you. I can keep my food and water down. I can walk without aid. Surely total bed rest would be superfluous at this point?”

 _A sound argument_ , Joly thought to himself. “Perhaps,” he said, taking pity on the man. It was no easy feat to endure the wards of this hospital. Most people left the very moment they were able to—patients and volunteers alike, even those who had nowhere to go. Even then… “You still aren’t well enough to be sent home, Monsieur.” His tone brooked no argument.

Combeferre sighed like he knew it. “But I am well enough to walk around, yes?”

Joly considered it. The man did look a little too wan for his liking, but… " _To heal the heart and soul is to heal the mind and body,_ ” one of his mentors once said and Joly believed it. It would do Combeferre’s psyche no good if Joly confined him to his bed against his wishes. He glanced up and out the glass windows where the moon shone bright in a clear sky then looked back at his patient. “Well, it certainly wouldn’t do any harm unless you overexerted yourself,” he said. He looked around the ward and saw that things were relatively quiet so he placed a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and stood.

“How about a short walk then?” He suggested. If anything movement would placate the man and be good for his circulation. And to be honest Joly needed a moment’s peace himself.

The other man regarded him dubiously, however. “I do not need a warden.”

 _Ah, but he does have heart…_ Joly thought back to his initial impression of the man and chuckled. “No, I should think not, but I would feel better knowing you are truly as good and well as you say you are.” He held out a hand to the other man. “Come now, Monsieur Combeferre. We could both use the fresh air and I would be glad for the company.”

Combeferre paused to consider it before he nodded, finally cracking a small smile. “All right.” He took Joly’s proffered hand and stood carefully. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Joly nodded with a smile. “This way.”

He turned and led his patient through the maze of cots, careful to stay at a pace that wouldn’t overtax the other man, and Combeferre followed him wordlessly, happy to be allowed out of his bed even if it was under the watchful eye of his physician. Several people paused in their work to greet Joly as they walked past, but Combeferre was largely ignored. This seemed to suit him just fine as his eyes took in more of his surroundings.

The hospital was larger than most people would first imagine. There were four immense buildings set in a square with a courtyard at its center and that was where Joly led the other man, out into the open garden.

Cool air hit them as soon as he crossed the threshold and Joly took his second breath of fresh air for the day. There was no mistaking the sigh of relief he heard from Combeferre as the blond took a deep breath himself. He probably felt like was breathing for the first time since he had woken up in the hospital. Joly left him to it and whipped out his pipe and started smoking, searching for his own peace for it was sure to be short-lived.

And then a thought struck him.

He cleared his throat to catch Combeferre’s attention and asked, “How much salt and honey was in that water you gave that man back there?” Joly needed to know. Fluids and ions were a more precise science than most people would believe and while he was sure the other man meant well he might have to correct any imbalances his earlier actions may have caused the old man back in the wards.

The question seemed to take Combeferre by surprise and he shrugged. “A teaspoon of salt and two of honey to a cup of water,” he answered easily and Joly couldn’t keep his own surprise from showing on his face.

“It was the first thing they taught us when we volunteered to help,” he started when Joly continued to look at him expectantly. “To balance what the body gains with what it loses, water by itself would not be enough—not for losses this extreme.” He looked at the young doctor and smiled sheepishly. “I am a Medical Student at the Collège,” he admitted, and Joly could actually feel his eyes all but lit up in astonishment.

“Are you?” He said. “That’s splendid!” It dawned on the physician that that was what Combeferre must have been doing out in the streets where he was found. He had said that he had been helping the victims of the epidemic, but he had neglected to mention this detail. But of course! Everybody in the Universities and Colleges was helping. Then another thought struck him. “You caught it…” Joly said slowly and he chuckled before clearing his throat. “Your professors would be most disappointed.”

Combeferre frowned, clearly slighted, until he saw the mirth in Joly’s eyes. The young doctor was only teasing. Combeferre imagined the look on his professors’ and colleagues’ faces if they could see him now. He’d never thought about it and the mental picture made him smile. “I imagine they would be, yes.”

Joly only shook his head. He felt an instant connection with Combeferre now that he knew they had something so important in common. Their conversation was light and easy. He asked about all the goings-on in France, from the latest trends and the newest books to his professors and the College, listening with rapt attention. It wasn’t until after Joly asked if an old cafe he used to frequent was still in business that Combeferre thought to ask about him in turn.

“How long have you been working here, Docteur?” He asked. “When did you last see the sun?”

Combeferre had most likely meant for it to be a joke, but Joly blushed in spite of himself and ducked his head. “It isn’t so much working that keeps me busy; I am still a student, you know, like yourself but in a higher year. I still have classes to attend so I’m not always here.” His face took on a different expression then, a more distant and serious one. “I’ve been here only six months, but even that is…” He seemed to struggle to find the words, but eventually gave up. He shook his head, as if shaking himself from a trance, and smiled as he met Combeferre’s eyes again. “Well, it is six months too long is what it is.”

Combeferre nodded in understanding. He always knew the art and science of Medicine was a challenge not everyone could take on. His few days in the hospital already felt to him like Calvary; what more six months spent slaving away in the service of those who could not pay a franc, and for absolutely no personal profit other than the experience?

He had been to this hospital before as well as all the others—the Dieu, the Necker; great buildings of gothic architecture where students learned from scholars and apprentices learned from masters. They all of them volunteered and pledged their lives to education, charity, and service.

“It is admirable, what you do,” Combeferre said with fervour and Joly’s bue eyes twinkled.

“Come now, Combeferre—may I call you that?” Combeferre nodded and Joly smiled graciously. “We all knew what we were getting ourselves into from the beginning. It is no more admirable than the decision to study Medicine at all.”

Joly winked and Combeferre flushed. They lapsed into a comfortable silence then, Joly steadily smoking his pipe while Combeferre luxuriated the time outdoors. All around the hospital nuns and other healers attended to the patients, but for now nobody needed the more able hands of a physician and Combeferre was glad for Joly’s presence, for without it he would surely be sent back to his disheartening cot.

The wards were filled to bursting with patients and the hospital clearly needed more people to help. But did the people of Paris know what went on inside the stone walls of the hospitals? Did they care? Combeferre himself hadn’t seen the gravity of the situation until now. Healthcare didn’t seem to be a priority to the government or to the people—not when they could afford private physicians who went to their houses and gave them the best treatment in the comforts of their homes.

Could we make a difference here, I wonder? He thought to himself. He decided that he would take it up with Enjolras the next chance he got. Then he sighed when he thought of his friend. Two days have passed since he awoke. They would have had their weekly meeting by now, and Combeferre was both eager for an update on their movements and anxious to be in the comfort of his usual life again. He was anxious to be out of the hospital and be with his friends. They still hadn’t gotten a hold of them; he had asked Musichetta so many times. Combeferre sighed again and leaned against the wall behind him.

“Is something the matter?” Joly asked right away and Combeferre shook his head no.

“Only that I am eager to be home. Perhaps I would have been better off lending a hand here rather than out there,” he said wryly and Joly gave him a sympathetic look.

“Well, we would surely have been glad for the help.”

Just then Musichetta stepped out into the courtyard and appeared at Joly’s side looking frazzled. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Joly almost dropped his pipe in his haste to put it out. “What is it?”

Musichetta heaved a great sigh. “New patients have come in from Beauvais. No other hospital would take them in; they have no room.”

Joly frowned. “ _We_ have no room,” he said, but even as he spoke he pocketed his pipe and straightened coat. Clearly his moment of peace was over.

“Joly, they have children…” ‘Chetta said plaintively and something wavered in the young doctors’ eyes. Combeferre watched as all the good humour from only moments before was replaced with fatigue.

“Right, let’s see what we can do then, shall we?” Joly said and Musichetta nodded and hurried back into the hospital. The doctor started after her, but then turned on his heel to face Combeferre as if remembering him at the last minute.

“I’m sorry, Combeferre,” he said apologetically. “Will you make it back all right on your own?”

“Of course,” Combeferre said quickly and Joly gave him a grateful look before turning away again. Then he stopped and walked back briskly to Combeferre’s side.

“You really are much better now,” he said. “I’m glad for that.” He grasped Combeferre’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Get a good night’s sleep and find me tomorrow. We will see what we can do about sending you home even without our friends to collect you.”

Without thinking Combeferre grasped the hand Joly had on his shoulder and squeezed it back. The prospect of being allowed home lifted his spirits with such cogency that it surprised even him. “Thank you,” he whispered and Joly gave him a tight smile as Musichetta called for him again from inside the hospital. Joly squeezed his shoulder one last time, and then he was gone, leaving Combeferre standing alone in the courtyard.

For a few minutes Combeferre continued to just stand there contentedly, relishing the peace and fresh air, but eventually the nuns’ eyes turned to him and regarded him sharply, and he elected to return to his cot on his own terms before they made him. He braced himself and entered the stifling halls of the hospital again.

Joly and Musichetta were nowhere to be seen, and there seemed to be even more patients now than there had been before he had stepped outside. One of them, a young woman too weak to stand, saw him as he entered and called out imploringly.

“Docteur,” she said weakly. Combeferre stared at her for a few moments before he realized she was calling out to him. Startled, he shook his head even as he went to her stand by her cot.

“Madame, I am not a Docteur,” he started to say, but was cut short when her mouth quivered and her eyes misted over with tears. She didn’t seem to have heard him.

“Docteur, please,” she reached past him and pointed to the cot next to hers. “My daughter…”

Combeferre turned and saw a little girl lying on her back. Her face was dirty and her long blond hair was frizzy and unkempt. Her lips were chapped and her sunken eyes were closed. Combeferre felt pity well up inside him. _Help her_ , something inside him told him.

“Mon petite,” he whispered sadly and touched her cheek. It was warm. He took her wrist and felt a pulse, weak but unmistakable, and he quickly turned back to the mother. “What is her name?”

“Chantalle,” she sobbed before turning away, overcome.

Combeferre turned back to the child and shook her gently. “Chantalle, can you hear me, child?” He said. “Chantalle, mon petite. Open your eyes.”

The little girl grimaced and Combeferre shook her some more until finally she opened her eyes. Combeferre sighed in relief and pushed her hair out of her face. The little girl’s eyes were dull, and she heaved a small sigh as if to speak, but no sound came out. She licked her dry lips. 

“You need water,” he said softly. As with the case of the old man from earlier, Combeferre let his training come to the fore. Making her as comfortable as he could, Combeferre pulled her cot closer to her mother’s where the older woman cried and pulled the little girl into her arms. He hunkered down next to them and assured the fretful woman.

“She will be all right, Madame,” he said. “We will take care of her.” He knew what to do and there was no time to lose. He looked up, trying to see if there was anybody who could help him, but other than Joly or Musichetta he didn’t know anyone else who worked here, and the nuns were nowhere to be seen. He stood up and quickly made his way to the next ward’s entrance and still found no one who could help him. 

And he couldn’t wait for anyone. There was nobody, but him.

He looked back at the woman and the little girl and saw that her eyes had closed again. Without another word he exited the ward and made his way to where he knew the supplies were kept. All thoughts of going back to his own cot fled his mind as Combeferre gathered his wits about him and quickly went to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! Hopefully the next chapter won't take too long to come out. Hope you enjoyed it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a long time and I never read the whole book. I did, however, read most of the chapters that have Combeferre and Joly in them so I hope I was able to keep them well enough in character for you. Also, the outbreak in this fic is not the cholera epidemic of 1832 in France. This fic is set well before the revolution, but as you have read our lovely boys have already begun their plotting. 
> 
> Hope you liked it!


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